


etc, etc.

by dynasty_decapitated



Series: vent fics [2]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, basically tyler has all my issues lol, josh doesn't get it or really care, pls don't read if ED talk triggers you, same au where ty has ocd and bpd, tyler has an eating disorder, vague romanticising of EDs, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 19:01:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6206821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynasty_decapitated/pseuds/dynasty_decapitated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>but then he looks at himself in the mirror, hoists himself up onto the toilet, does a little spin so he can see his hips, his ass, misses the way his hipbones used to thrust their way out of his skin, like they were trying to escape. like he was trying to escape.</p>
<p>and he misses it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	etc, etc.

tyler has an eating disorder. it's as simple as that. a fact he knows to be as true as the grass is green, water is wet, he needs to be thinner.

he's not entirely sure where he fits in, whether he's anorexic with bulimic tendencies, bulimic with anorexic tendencies, EDNOS etc, etc. but he knows he has a problem. that's it, no one else is any the wiser. it's his little secret.

it starts when he's fourteen. skipping dinner turns into figuring out the calorie content of his breakfast, skipping breakfast, throwing up lunch, ditching the idea of meals all together, sticking to snacks. he fasts for days at a time, running on caffeine and the good ol' high of malnourishment. on the scale, off the scale: 140lbs.

then, at seventeen, he meets josh. josh, the cute boy with cute hair and cute eyes and a cute tummy. he remembers the sickening thought he fleetingly had, that josh could stand to lose a few pounds. he fasts for an extra day as punishment. he's met with this new expectation, a new goal: be thinner than josh, be cuter than josh, be _better_ than josh. (of course, he thinks that's impossible because josh is perfect. and he is not.) he doesn't tell josh that he had signed them both up for this competition, who could be thinner, who could be _better_. it gives him an advantage, josh won't starve himself to win, but  _he would._

of course, it gets out of hand. he no longer knew where his body began and his mind ended. craving, longing, _no no no you can't eat that_ , three glasses of water, lusting over salty foods, _pretzels sound so good right now_ , a three mile walk, more water, on the scale, off the scale, a banana for breakfast, sweet corn for lunch, 230 cals, 110 pounds. it never ends.

and tyler wonders if he's gone too far when josh expresses concern. "are you doing okay, man? you don't look good." he doesn't look good. good good good good good....he rolls the word around in his head for four hours before he decides that he must get thinner. he must look good. must be better than josh.

he's getting sicker. hours without eating turn to days, days turn into a week with no solids, no shitting, no chickening out. he drops seventeen pounds in fourteen days. he thinks that's pretty impressive, seventeen is a good number. he's high off the feeling of dropping kilo by kilo, watching his ribcage slowly grow further out into his skin. he's delirious, manic. twelve day fasts will do that to you.

oats, soya milk and cinnamon for breakfast: 200 cals, salad for lunch: 50 cals, four glasses of water for dinner: 0 cals - _euphoria_. 

98 pounds. he cries of happiness at 4am, swaying around his bathroom. dazed, dizzy, delirious. fanfuckingtastic.

and it's not that he didn't see how thin he was getting, in fact, he was hyper aware of it. of the skin on his cheeks sinking in, his collarbones pushing out, his eyes becoming dull. he loved it, thrived off it. his own personal high, one that no one can butt off him. it was all his. his his his.

josh is super fucking worried now. dude, no, eat this. i'm worried. look how thin you've gotten, you look tired, why are you limping, your eyes are red, dude, did you get high without me, tyler, is that all you're eating, tyler, you want some of this, tyler, tyler, tyler.

he shuts him up with a quick fuck in the café bathroom, in the backseat of josh's mom's car, in tyler's squeaky single bed. he shuts up. for a while.

tyler could no longer tell if his knuckles were so red and blotchy from biting them while he threw up his lunch in the disabled toilets at school, or biting them to keep himself quiet as josh fucked him into the mattress at 3am. they both leave him hazy, hungry, high. he decides he doesn't need to know.                                       

he felt fucking great. that's what he told his parents, the school counsellor, josh. and he wasn't lying. coffee for breakfast: 5 cals, coffee for lunch: 5 cals, coffee for dinner: 5 cals, a late night run - _mania_.

numbers numbers numbers. always counting. 300 seconds running, 13 second walk, 13 seconds to stretch and drink his water, 300 seconds running, etc, etc. he likes the numbers 13 and 17. and 3.  3 3 3 3 3 3 3. they were whole, yet incomplete, like him.

95 pounds. he hits it like a car against a street light, suddenly, dangerously, one foot dangling in a grave.

but he was so happy, the weight kept coming off and off like layers of clothing. he was naked, starving, disappearing. risking it all. sick.

one day, he does something completely out of character, it throws him and his body (which he's established at this point, are two separate things. he isn't a body, he just owns one) completely off guard. he wakes up from a nap, sneaks downstairs, flinching at the creek of the floorboards under his feet, and he eats. he eats and eats and eats. he starts with the chips in the pantry, then the sugary sweet, untouched cereal in the back of the cupboard, then the yoghurts in the fridge, ice cream, cookies. he eats it all. he doesn't even need to shove his fingers down his throat, his body rejects the food, throws it up into the sink. he lets it happen until he's sure everything is up, pushes the chocolate chips down the drain with his dainty fingers. realises how fucked up this is. he tells his mom.

and at age twenty four, five years into recovery, 120 pounds, successful, happy, living with his best friend - turned fuck buddy - turned boyfriend, he looks back and he barely remembers.

that's kind of a lie. he remembers what he ate on november the 2nd when he was 18, remembers how many calories are in a single yoghurt covered rice cake, in a single lettuce leaf. he remembers the high. but everything else seems to blur together, as if he's watching a slowed down - sped up montage of not his life, of somebody else's life. somebody else's battle.

and the veins in his left arm are all collapsed, he has heart murmurs, anemia, headaches, gastric reflux, he can't shit without laxatives.

but then he looks at himself in the mirror, hoists himself up onto the toilet, does a little spin so he can see his hips, his ass, misses the way his hipbones used to thrust their way out of his skin, like they were trying to escape. like he was trying to escape.

and he misses it.

 

 


End file.
